The Fury - Jason Pinter [94]
to such ridiculous lengths, because Clarence's apart
ment was an absolute pigsty.
Garbage littered the floor like he was trying to save
room in the city landfills. Empty Chinese food and
pizza boxes were stacked in one corner. Beer cans were
strewn about, creating an aluminum carpet. I could
identify at least a half-dozen different brands, as well
as a few bottles of various liquors: Jose Cuervo, Cour
voiser, Hennessy. Clearly, Clarence Willingham was
not picky when it came to his booze.
"Take a seat," he said, gesturing to a beanbag chair
crisscrossed by duct tape like a low-budget surgical
patient. I sat down, immediately feeling the beans
shifting under me. The last beanbag chair I'd sat in was
during college, and I'm pretty sure a box of wine was
involved. "Can I get you a drink? Beer? Soda?
Absinthe?"
I was tempted to ask for the absinthe out of curiosity,
but decided I wasn't that thirsty. "Thanks, I had lunch
before I came."
"Suit yourself, man." Clarence reached under a desk
and pulled out a small wooden box. He opened it, and
took out what appeared to be a piece of rolling paper
and a bag of pot. He looked as me, pleased. "This is
some pure hydro. Fifty bucks a gram. You can snag an
ounce in Washington Square Park for about six hundred.
Sometimes you go up by the George Washington
Bridge, around 179th Street, you find some real fiends
who'll sell it for cheaper, but it won't be as good. And
you'd be surprised at how many of the kids from
Columbia deal right in Morningside Park."
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273
"Thanks for the info," I said, "but I gave up smoking
in college. I eat enough Cheetos these days as it is."
"Suit yourself, reporter man."
Clarence sprinkled some of the weed onto the paper.
Then he spent a minute picking through it, removing any
clumps or twigs. Once the mixture was in a slight cone
shape--wide to narrow--he began to roll. Clarence stared
at the joint with an almost trancelike intensity. He began
in the middle, using his thumbs to roll it evenly, gradu
ally moving his fingers to the ends of the paper. Once it
was a cylinder, he licked the top edge of the paper and
folded it over. When that was completed, he took a small
piece of thicker paper and rolled it tightly into a spiral.
He inserted that into one end of the joint. Clarence twisted
the end without the roach so nothing would fall out.
Taking the joint between his thumb and index finger,
Clarence held it to his lips, sparked a lighter and took
a deep drag. He drew it deep into his lungs, his eyes
closing as the end of the joint glowed. Finally he
removed it from his lips and puffed out a dark cloud that
hung over his room for a minute before disappearing.
When all that was done, he opened his eyes, looked
at me, held out the joint. "Best weed you'll smoke in
this city."
"No, thanks," I said. "I'm working."
"Whatever. So you said you wanted to talk about my
pops. What about him?"
"Your dad was Butch Willingham."
"S'right." Clarence took another drag. I noticed a
small corner of his upper lip was turned up. Either he
wasn't entirely fond of speaking about his father, or
hadn't in a long time.
274
Jason Pinter
"Was he a good father?"
Clarence held out the joint. I don't think he meant it
that way, but I saw that as somewhat of an answer.
"No better or worse, s'pose."
"How do you mean that?"
"I know a lot of kids my age who had more'n I did.
Know a lot that had less. My dad, he didn't have much
of an education. No college, no high school. Dropped
out at fourteen, spent the rest of his life slinging rock.
That's all the man knew. As far as I knew he was good
at it."
"How so?"
"Kept me well fed. My moms died when I was a kid
and I never had no brothers or sisters, so it was all up to
him. He made sure I went to school, beat my ass if I didn't
get good grades. I know a lot of dads who bought the rock
my dad sold and just sunk into a hellhole because of it.
My dad never smoked, never drank. To him this was his
livelihood, like someone who goes to a plant, punches a
clock.